The knife was an unfortunate compromise, but Maria didn’t want to use a gun. A shot could wake the circus’s animals. Dealing with a pissed off tiger, or rampaging elephant, wasn’t how she wanted to spend Easter.
Bobo
the Clown’s trailer was next to the bearded-woman’s camper, behind the manure-scented
show-ponies. His door was unlocked.
Maria
entered and stood motionless. Humid dark enveloped her. It smelled of unwashed
labor.
She
heard a crackle. Blue light flashed. 40,000 volts chain-sawed through her
concentration.
Maria
jumped left. The stun-gun-jab missed.
She
found the light switch and flicked. Fluorescent bright washed the dingy space.
The
clown’s momentum carried him down. He landed on his stomach, in-between the wall
and bathroom.
He
roared and tried to push himself up. A fire-orange afro wig flapped like a
psychedelic dream.
Maria
reached to her boot, pulled the knife, and thrust it through Bobo’s white-painted
right hand. Blood spurted and stained the thick makeup. The hand lay flat,
pinned to the floor.
Bobo
looked up at her. “You fucking bitch.”
She
kicked him in the mouth. Two yellow teeth fell and mixed with the blood. Bobo
went limp.
Behind
a plastic liter of vodka, she found a colorful rope made of tied handkerchiefs.
She pulled the knife and tied his wrists behind his back. She used the oversized
red-shoe’s laces and knotted his ankles together.
Bobo
woke ten minutes later. He struggled. The restraints held. His bloodshot eyes went
wide. Tears fell.
“I’m
so sorry,” Bobo said.
Maria
frowned. “Why are you violating the agreement?”
His
red nose arced down. “The orphanage.”
“Wrong
choice.”
She
swallowed the guilt and looked at the bloody clown. “Circus-sales belong to us.”
Bobo
sobbed. “You’re the evil in this.”
“At
least I’m still in this.”
“It
isn’t over.”
“No?”
“We
have eyes, everywhere.”
She
slid the knife between his seventh and eighth rib, into the lung. Bobo tried to
scream, but he couldn’t push the air.
Bobo
jerked, then twitched, then rattled. He stopped moving. His eyes turned to milky
glass.
Maria
pulled the knife. She cleaned the blade on Bobo’s purple jumpsuit and left the
way she came.
Maria
got home just before dinner, stinking of livestock. She took a shower and felt
the horror drip away. She put on a white terry-cloth robe.
In
the apartment’s small kitchen, Mama held the baby, cooked pozole, and chatted
about Easter mass. Maria felt content. It was good to be with family.
Maria
sat at the ancient table. A plate of oranges rested in front of her, with a paring
knife for slicing. She ate and thought about the weight of it all. Perhaps her
time in the game was getting short. She looked at her daughter and, for the
first time in a decade, felt hope.
She
was chewing pozole when she saw movement in the periphery. She heard the slapping
of oversized shoes and smelled livestock.
The
door opened. The space was filled by a large man wearing a rainbow jumpsuit and
green wig.
Maria
turned to Mama. “Take the baby. Run.”
A
smile cut through white pancake makeup. “We have eyes, everywhere.”
Maria
reached towards the plate of oranges and picked up the knife.
J.B. Stevens lives in the Southeastern
United States with his wife and daughter.
His writing has been featured in Mystery
Tribune, Noir Nation, Criminal Element, Thriller Magazine,
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and other publications.
He is a veteran of the Iraq war where he
earned a Bronze Star. Prior to the war, he was an undefeated Mixed Martial Arts
Fighter. J.B. graduated from The Citadel.
He can be found online at twitter.com/IamJBStevens and jb-stevens.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment